


Quite Useless

by Skitty_Kat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Antagonism, Grimmauld Place, M/M, Oscar Wilde-inspired, Painting in the Attic, Weird sort-of clone sex, fic with art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:52:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9169441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitty_Kat/pseuds/Skitty_Kat
Summary: Somewhere in the attic of a well-known residence, there is a portrait of Severus Snape. Like any painting, it never ages or grows any older. So where’s the story in that?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted back in 2009.
> 
> As Oscar Wilde once wrote, ‘Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.’ You may of course, judge for yourselves. But this whole thing is clearly his fault – and the illustrations inspired by the lovely black-and-whites in my copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray.  
> Much, much love and kisses to the glorious [info]drachenmina who went through this with a strict red pen.

None of the Order knew it, but Severus Snape was a more familiar sight in the kitchens of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place than any of them might have guessed. He had been younger then, of course, and the house less full of Gryffindors and with a larger number of habitable rooms. Not that he minded the kitchen really. It was familiar. Mrs Black would have died rather than invert social order to allow a half-blood at her dinner table, but Severus was allowed in the kitchen and most of the house provided he conducted himself with the proper decorum. Severus had learned well under the tutelage of Lucius Malfoy (who could never have suffered an ill-mannered fag) and had been a model of appropriate behaviour.

 

The house was quiet now. Severus hated it. It had been empty for years, its heart having ceased to beat long before. It should have been left to decay at its natural rate and slowly crumble into dust. But no, into this peacefully mouldering husk had wormed the maggot Sirius Black, expelled long ago, returning and bringing with him his parasitic friends. A semblance of life brought back to the corpse, forcing twitches and shudders as its rotting flesh was bent to their own uses.

 

Kreacher had the right of it, Severus thought. The deranged house elf should have been left to wither and die with the house; now he was pressed into the service of those mongrels that had the pretensions to make it their home.

 

Music drifted down the stairs. Lupin had his record player out again; probably seeking to mask the extended rattle of the house’s dying breath. Severus scowled and sought solace in his teacup.

 

Feet in the doorway made him look up. Sirius Black stood there; still not at ease in the place he called his home. The feet shifted and fingers drummed on the doorframe.

 

 

‘What’re you still doing here, Snape?’

 

Severus leaned back in the chair. ‘Drinking your tea.’

 

‘Why don’t you piss off back to your dungeons and stop haunting my kitchen?’

 

Severus didn’t bother to respond. He raised the teacup to his mouth, sipping slowly before lifting his eyes to look back at the other man. Black lounged in the doorway in an attitude both insolent and displaced. He glared at Severus; no doubt put out by how at ease his worst enemy was (quite purposefully) appearing to be in the horrid place.

 

‘Have you been in this house before?’ Black suddenly demanded.

 

Severus raised a smug eyebrow. ‘Frequently. After you were expunged from the familial bosom, of course.’

 

Black bit off a curse. ‘You and my family were welcome to each other.’

 

‘So nice to have your belated approval.’ Severus placed his cup on the scratched tabletop, folding his arms primly against his chest. ‘Was there a point to this sparkling conversation or is this just an entertaining diversion from your lonely little life?’

 

‘Come upstairs.’

 

Severus snorted. ‘Of course.’ He didn’t move.

 

‘No, I mean it. There’s something you need to see.’

 

‘So I’m meant to just follow you upstairs?’ Severus gave an unpleasant laugh. ‘Try again, Black.’

 

‘Oh, for pity’s -!’ Black pushed himself upright. ‘Look, I won’t lay a finger on you, all right? Just … there’s something I want to know about and you’re the only one who might have some sort of answer.’

 

Severus must have been mellowed by his memories because he found himself pushing the chair back, standing and following Black from the kitchen without complaint. After all, he wasn’t _afraid_ of Sirius Black. _Magni nominis umbra_ , he quoted silently.

 

:::

 

The stairs creaked as they went up, worn carpet rough beneath Sirius’s socked feet as he led the way. Even now, he couldn’t help recoiling from the house elf heads mounted on the walls. Snape was sneering, clearly unimpressed. Bastard. Snape was a fine one to judge; he saw uglier things in his mirror of a morning.

 

Grime had made the colour of the wallpaper impossible to determine and Sirius couldn’t even remember what it had once been. They passed doors he knew well and others he’d not dared investigate. After three flights the already decrepit carpet gave way to something much more threadbare before vanishing altogether. Snape’s boots tapped on the bare wood, heels striking different sounds as he stepped on the more rotten boards: tap – tap – thud – tap – creak – ominous splintering – Sirius hid a smile as even Snape’s obnoxious countenance faltered – tap –tap. Finally, they came to the attic door – a shadowy and inauspicious end to their climb.

 

It creaked as Sirius opened it. He went in, ducking his head under the lintel and waved his wand briefly to bring up the lights on the walls. They glowed, pale and bright, from the glass bulbs resting on ornate iron holders, illuminating the detritus of generations of Blacks. All the old bastards were dead and gone now but they hadn’t half left a lot of junk behind them. Boxes were piled in towers along the walls. Some were open, testament to Sirius’s briefly enthusiastic attempts to sort out the mass of antiquities. A half-decent area of cleared floor demonstrated where he had been successful in expunging family history (it seemed only fair to him – after all, they had quite decisively managed to eradicate him from their present), though it was obvious that the shadow the attic extended into hid far more than he had yet removed.

 

‘This way,’ Sirius muttered, jerking his head to the left.

 

He led Snape between two leaning stacks and past a rail of moth-eaten robes. Sirius knew he’d have to tackle those at some point but was waiting until he’d found protective clothing. If those larvae had been munching through the Black family possessions for some time they’d probably evolved some vicious tendencies. He hopped over an old carpet which lay like a fallen pillar across the floor, and kicked aside what looked to be books containing the family accounts circa 1823, no doubt masterpieces of tax evasion. They came to a clear space, ringed by half-emptied boxes and chests.

 

There was a large, gilt frame before them. A sheet was draped over it, partly tucked back where Sirius had looked earlier. A brief glimpse at the canvas within had sent him hurriedly throwing the sheet back over and heading downstairs. Now, he watched his companion and was rewarded by having his suspicions confirmed.

 

Severus Snape knew this painting.

 

Sirius watched as Snape’s eyes widened for just a moment before the man’s entire face set in non-reaction, staring coolly at the still half-covered creation. Beneath the draping sheet a long pair of legs extended, stretching across taut canvas with elegant brushstrokes. The varnish that coated the painting had darkened with time and neglect, dimming the rosebush that grew from behind the subject’s feet. Sirius finally seized the edge of the sheet and pulled.

 

Clouds of dust choked the air for a few moments, obscuring both breath and sight before clearing to settle on already thickly-coated floorboards.

 

‘Gryffindors and their blasted theatrical tendencies … bunch of bloody p…’

 

The rest of what Snape was muttering was interrupted by expectorations. Sirius coughed and brushed off what had settled on his sleeves, then finally looked at what he had revealed.

 

The likeness was quite remarkable, considering what a flattering job the artist had done. The features were all there but even Sirius could appreciate the craftsmanship that had gone into making them appealing and the result that had been achieved. What stared from the painting’s two dimensions was nothing less than a younger, more aesthetically pleasing Severus Snape.

 

 

Sirius couldn’t help but look between the two – the real man a dour, ageing gargoyle contrasting with the younger, almost handsome youth with a smirk on his smooth lips.

 

Snape still hadn’t said a damn word.

 

Sirius glared at him. It was all very well for the git to have been welcome back when Sirius’s maniac pureblood family were alive but they had now been dead for quite some years (and a bloody good thing too, he added without a touch of remorse). And while Snape looked like he belonged in the mouldy old house, lurking in the cellar with that mad house elf, it was still Sirius’s house. The painting was an incursion too far, particularly as Sirius was quite certain his dear mother had destroyed any and all depictions of her eldest son a long time ago. The old bitch had undoubtedly done it with glee too.

 

‘Oi, Snivellus!’ Sirius snapped. ‘You going to explain this or what?’

 

Snape blinked, fury flickering on his features before smoothing away into a brief smirk. ‘ “Or what”? Hardly your best effort, Black.’

 

‘Why in the name of Merlin’s smelly earwax is there a painting of you in my bloody attic?’

 

Snape didn’t answer.

 

‘And why isn’t it moving?’

 

‘That, Black, is because it is a muggle painting.’ Snape stepped towards it, hands slipping out from his robe sleeves to brush together before him. ‘Unfortunately, it just wouldn’t have been considered the done thing in wizarding society for Regulus Black to have commissioned a wizarding portrait of his impecunious half-blood lover.’

 

Sirius choked, and this time it wasn’t because of the dust.

 

‘You and Reg…!’

 

‘Quite. I always considered him the better of the two of you. Not that there was ever much competition for that.’

 

Snape walked closer to the painting, lifting one hand towards its flat surface. Sirius’s mouth opened – for what, a warning? – before shutting with a snap. Snape sneered.

 

‘Not frightened of it, are you, Black?’ he taunted. ‘By all means, hide in the corner with your tail between your cowardly little legs. Afraid that if I so much as touch it you’ll suddenly see all my sins laid out on canvas?’

 

Sirius couldn’t explain what he thought he’d see. Something just didn’t seem right about the painting. The too-perfect rendition of a boy he’d known and hated, concealed amid dust and Dark artefacts for Merlin only knew how long, was staring at him from across years. The look in those black eyes was exactly the same as he remembered it. He didn’t dare move, held as surely as if Snape’s gaze had been that of a Gorgon. It already felt as though stone were forming up his vertebrae, stiffening them into prickling stillness.

 

Snape scoffed and tapped the fading gilt of the frame. It was a dull rat-tat in the dusty silence.

 

Nothing happened. Sirius let out a breath that had been growing stale in his lungs. Maybe…

 

Snape stared up at the painting, eyes lingering over the fine brushstrokes at the edges of the lips, the faint shadow that formed the side of the nose, and the black centres of the eyes. He seemed to forget Sirius was even in the musty attic, so intent was he on studying his own youthful face. His lips parted faintly, bloodless and sharply contrasted by the rosy flush of the portrait’s sensual mouth. His hand rose again, emerging from folds of robe to pause like a hovering insect barely an inch from the varnish. And, just as an insect would, it trembled faintly as it held its position.

 

He was afraid, Sirius suddenly realised, despite his earlier disdain. Severus Snape was somehow, perhaps unconsciously, nervous of this display of paint and canvas. Feeling the trepidation of the other man, Sirius found himself shivering anew. He wanted to dash over and seize hold of Snape’s hand, to yank it away – but Merlin, those eyes! Brushstrokes shouldn’t be allowed to hold such intensity.

 

Snape’s hand came closer, almost grazing the painting before shying back again. Then, as its owner steeled himself, it rose again with new resolve and made contact with that of its painted counterpart.

 

 

Yellow, potion-stained fingertips brushed pale representations of themselves. Something fired across Sirius’s nerves in an electric crackle but he could do nothing as those fingers suddenly slipped under the varnished surface. Their speed slowed to that of a man wading through deep water as they submerged further, knuckles smoothly sliding through. Snape’s hand sank sluggishly through the canvas; first up to the wrist, then swallowing the black-clad arm to the elbow, to the shoulder. Without a flicker of expression even as the tip of that famous hooked nose slid into the oils Snape vanished into the painting, swirling black robes flattening into thick brushstrokes. In moments, it was as if the painting had always been of an ill-favoured adult man.

 

Stepping from the frame came the other Snape, the painted Snape. The young, good-looking Snape. He stood straight-backed, looking about himself briefly before focusing on the man in front of him.

 

‘Black?’

 

In place of Severus Snape, stood … Severus Snape.

 

Somewhat agog, Sirius found himself nodding. Snape-from-the-painting scrutinised him carefully, tucking a shining strand of hair behind his ear with a finger that was slender and unstained. His gaze was curious but not suspicious. Sirius stared back, unable to catalogue how different yet the same this person was.

 

‘You’ve not aged well,’ Severus-from-the-painting said eventually, looking a little disappointed.

 

‘You haven’t aged at all.’

 

 

Severus rolled his eyes. ‘Well, of course not, Reg.’ He stretched his arms above his head, extending his back in one smooth movement that Sirius found himself watching closely. ‘It’s been a long time, I suppose.’

 

Sirius nodded. ‘Yes.’ It had been, for a lot of things.

 

For a moment, Severus looked more sympathetic than Sirius had ever seen him. ‘My poor Regulus,’ he said, suddenly in front of the man.

 

Before Sirius could blink, those youth-flushed lips were pressed to his. He almost pulled back immediately but the warmth against him was a solid reminder of just how long it had been since he had known such intimacy. His hands settled on the young body, the heat fairly burning through the shirt the boy wore. Slim hips twisted under his touch. He was just so young! Sirius drew away a little, breaking the kiss.

 

‘Reg?’ Severus was looking up at him, those dark eyes heavy-lidded. ‘What’s wrong?’

 

Sirius paused as reality sank in. Severus, this young and unreal Severus, had mistaken him for his brother; his brother with whom the boy had apparently been carrying on with, all those years ago. The idea of poaching on Reg’s territory – like stealing his pillow or borrowing his crayons back when they had been boys – suddenly seemed immensely appealing. With only his right hand, and occasionally the left for variation, as company all those years in Azkaban the offer so freely given here seemed very tempting. Sirius had effectively exchanged the bars of that prison for the bricks of Grimmauld Place, one confinement to another. Now he felt quite abruptly that he’d go mad without some sort of release.

 

It was only Snape, after all. And the artist had done such a good job on the aesthetics.

 

‘Nothing,’ he managed. ‘It’s just been such a long time, that’s all.’

 

The youth bent easily to Sirius’s wants. He went to the floor willingly, falling back onto sharp elbows in the dust and pulling Sirius with him. There was a smile on his face and it was as if the sun had come out, illuminating the swirling dust motes around him. Sirius decided he was seeing things in his old age and stretched himself over the boy for a kiss.

 

Severus’s mouth was soft, opening immediately to the touch. Sirius imagined, chasing into the slick corners, that he could detect the faintest taste of oil paint, sharp and crisp on the tip of his tongue. He could smell it on the pale skin too, as he pulled the shirt open and slid his stubbly cheek down the smooth chest. Severus squirmed, slim hands curling into Sirius’s hair and drawing him back up.

 

They were naked in minutes, robes and clothes abandoned to the floorboards in a tangled mess.

 

 

:::

 

The lights in their holders seemed to be burning more dimly, the grime of the room encroaching on their illumination. Sirius stirred, cursing age and weariness. With none of these problems, Severus rose easily from the floor and began pulling on his clothes. He flashed an odd, smug little smile at Sirius as he did so. Feeling self-conscious, Sirius dragged on his jeans, fumbling a little with the buttons. There was filth all over them and his skin didn’t feel much cleaner. The dust was sticking to the sweat, he supposed.

 

Severus was grinning – a fact that Sirius found bizarre and more than a little creepy - as he finished dressing, moving round the cleared area of the attic with obvious curiosity. It was only when he headed towards the darker corners of the attic (and worse, the door) that Sirius suddenly regained clarity to his sex-fazed senses.

 

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded.

 

Severus paused by a pile of boxes, a smile on those flushed lips.

 

‘Where am I going?’ He laughed; a strong youthful sound. ‘Out, of course. I’ve been stuck in that thing for God knows how long. No offence, Reg, but looks like it’s been bloody decades by the look of you. And that,’ he gestured with a thumb towards the painting where the real Severus was still frozen in oils, ‘is hardly arguing otherwise.’ He peered closer at it. ‘Merlin, but that’s ugly.’

 

‘But you can’t!’ Sirius protested.

 

Severus’s smooth brow creased a little as he raised an eyebrow. ‘Why not? Surely you’d much rather have me around than _him_.’

 

Sirius opened his mouth before shutting it abruptly. It went without saying, didn’t it, that they had to have the real Severus back? He was quite certain that Dumbledore would have something to say about it, at the least.

 

‘Don’t tell me you’d rather be shagging him,’ continued Severus, disdain dripping from his voice. It hadn’t quite gained its adult maturity, containing what could only be described as an edge of petulance. ‘He’s so ugly. Sex with him sounds more like a Gryffindor idea of charity to me. I thought better of you, Reg. Leave the noble sacrifice to your disgusting brother.’

 

Sirius felt a momentary pang of pity for Snape. This brat wasn’t the real thing – he was an artistic representation. And like most art, he lied; not in what he said, but what he was. Sympathy pulled at Sirius – even Snape’s lover had kept an idealised version of him hidden away. Merlin, had no one ever loved the man?

 

As quickly as it had come, the pity was pushed aside by Sirius’s rising fury. No painted urchin should be making him feel compassion for Severus bloody Snape!

 

‘Disgusting?’ he said lightly. ‘Why, Snivellus, you didn’t think I was disgusting five minutes ago when you were writhing around on the floor underneath me.’

 

The boy’s eyes widened.

 

‘That’s right,’ Sirius continued, malice buoying him up splendidly, ‘ _Snivellus_. You made a little mistake earlier. I’m not Regulus; he’s long dead. I’m the other Black brother. The one you really don’t like.’

 

He grinned. Savage glee was spreading through him. Dimly, he remembered having felt this way before, before the Dementors had sucked every happy memory into grey soup. Even the victim was the same, face contorting into furious lines Sirius knew only too well.

 

‘BLACK!’ Severus howled, launching himself towards Sirius.

 

They tussled for a moment but Sirius soon gained the upper hand, having age, cunning and size over the boy. He seized Severus by the scruff of the neck and dragged him across the floor.

 

‘Sorry, kid,’ he said cheerfully, ‘but it turns out I’m starting to miss the greasy old git after all.’

 

Severus clawed uselessly at Sirius, feet scrabbling against the floorboards as he was hauled along.

 

‘Get … off … me!’ he shrieked in fury.

 

‘Like … hell … I … will!’

 

Severus as a boy had hardly been a poster child for athleticism but after so long in Azkaban Sirius was hard pressed to keep hold of the struggling boy. With a final, concerted effort he threw Severus at the gilded frame, hoping like hell whatever magic was in the damn thing worked both ways. The momentum tripped him over his own feet and he crashed down, unable to see whether it had worked.

 

Finally, the clouds of dust kicked up by his fall cleared, leaving Sirius sprawled on the floor, short of both shirt and breath.

 

Snape – the real Snape, all black robes and black expression – stood before the painting again. He turned away from it, looking for all the world like he had just been disturbed from contemplating his youthful face. He drew his robes tighter about himself, dislodging dust from his sleeves with precise sweeps of his hands.

 

‘If that will be all, Black.’ He spoke curtly, moving to leave with a quick turn on his heel.

 

‘Snape,’ Sirius said then stopped, unsure of what to say.

 

‘You and your brother,’ Snape said softly, ‘are quite alike you know.’ He gave a weighty pause. ‘Not just in looks.’

 

He stared at Sirius for a few seconds before vanishing into the shadows and out of the attic. Sirius shivered; in that moment, Snape’s eyes had been as empty and flat as oil paint on canvas.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Endnotes (and quotes)
> 
> Magni nominis umbra, which Snape quotes earlier. ‘A shadow of a great name.’ An unworthy descendant of an illustrious family. Found it in my Roget’s and thought it rather fitting.
> 
> Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.  
> …  
> All art is at once surface and symbol.  
> Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.  
> Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.  
> It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.  
> …  
> All art is quite useless.  
> Oscar Wilde, Preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray
> 
> :::
> 
> As Sirius made his way back down the stairs, the chill of the house seeming to have sunk into his very bones, Remus stuck his head out of a doorway. Duke Ellington spilled out from behind him in a cheerful blast.
> 
> "Sirius? There was an awful lot of banging and bumping coming through the ceiling a moment ago." He gave a puzzled smile. "Did I miss something?"


End file.
